


We All Survive

by dinosaurrainbowstarfish (Charlie572)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, DO NOT READ ON FANFICTION POCKET ARCHIVE, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Major Character Undeath, Multi, depictions of ptsd, do not post to fanfiction pocket archive, emotional cruelty, major themes of abuse/manipulation, regular hurt/comfort but like reluctantly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie572/pseuds/dinosaurrainbowstarfish
Summary: The canon Elias is an awful man.This is a story about a different Elias, and a different path Jon's story could have taken.This is a story about grief, about loss, about hope, and most of all, about fear.Attention: The formatting of this fic involves the use of eye emojis as page breaks. As such, this could trigger trypophobia or scopophobia for some people, as well as possibly being annoying to those using screen readers. If you're worried about that, clicking "hide creator's style" will disable the skin and the page break will appear as the archive standard page break.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 40
Kudos: 43





	1. The World Doesn't End

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers all the way up to episode 160, although I diverge heavily from canon, especially where it concerns Elias Bouchard's history, character, and general likeability.
> 
> I promise I won't end on a bad note, and there will hopefully be some laughs and a lot of warmth in this fic, but especially the first few chapters are going to be horrifically painful. You've got to confront the deepest horrors before you can experience the heights of joy.
> 
> Or you can just skip to a less heavy chapter once I have those up. It's up to you to decide what your limits are when engaging with fiction and I respect that and I'll let you know when it's safe to come out. I'll include brief recaps in the end notes of later chapters so the fic will still make sense if you skip the angst.
> 
> Attention: The formatting of this fic involves the use of eye emojis as page breaks. As such, this could trigger trypophobia or scopophobia for some people, as well as possibly being annoying for those using screen readers. If you're worried about that, clicking "hide creator's style" will disable the skin and the page break will appear as the archive standard page break.
> 
> Content warnings:  
> Major Character Death  
> Hospitals  
> Some blood  
> canon-typical fear entities (spiral, vast, slaughter, beholding briefly mentioned)  
> fealing of helplessness  
> undue guilt
> 
> In the future, end chapter notes will have content warnings. I had to delete the end notes from this chapter and move them up here because I couldn't figure out how to just put the notes at the end of chapter 1, rather than at the end of the work.
> 
> For snowysauropteryx, whose art will eventually feature in this fic,

Jon should have known. 

He should have Known.

Over the years he’d seen the occasional statement stained with…blood, tears, unnamed monster goop…but nothing like this. He could feel the misery pour out of the folder before he’d even opened the box. 

The pages were grimy, singed at the edges. There was blood coating the official Institute manila folder, a smattering of brownish fingerprints and tear stains and ink blots. When he opened it, many of the words were scratched out, or written on top of each other. No one but the Archivist could have possibly read it, for the incidence of backwards letters or wild misspellings. 

What entity was this, even? Spiral, because of the way the author disregarded standard writing rules, such as “it should be apparent which side of the paper is meant to be the top and which is the bottom”? Or did that indicate a statement written while in the clutches of the Vast, being thrown to and fro until up and down didn’t mean anything in that emptiness where there was no ground? Maybe the blood indicated the Slaughter, and was written by a dying hand?

It was like Archivist catnip. A stale, guilt-free written statement dripping with this much trauma? He might not have to read anything else for a week.

Maybe that was why he reached for it first.

* * *

If Martin had been home, he would have asked Jon why he was weeping before his fingers ever touched the statement. But Melanie tells Martin, after it’s over and they’ve buried Jon, that he can’t blame himself. That they were fighting forces beyond anyone’s comprehension and there is absolutely nothing Martin could have done to stop what happened. It was just bad luck.

Martin thinks he ought to try to believe her.

* * *

This next scene needs very little description. Jon was on the floor, and he would not wake up. Martin was with him, later, and then there was paperwork, and signatures, and then Basira, and broken speed limits, and then a midnight phone call to Georgie. 

There was another hospital bed and another round of confused doctors and as the man he loved waste away to skin and bone and shallow, labored breaths, Martin did not cry, or beg, or ask anything of anyone. He thanked Basira when she brought him tea. He stroked Jon’s hair, and told him about the stray cat he’d seen on his way to the hospital, and told him he was loved, and when it was time to say goodbye, he kissed Jon’s forehead and thanked him, for everything.

And the Watcher drank it all in.


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is at least as painful as the last one. See end notes for detailed content warnings.
> 
> Please....commente.....

And then, the long process of making sense.

They bury Jon. Martin lays roses on his grave. He doesn’t cry. Maybe he will later, but for now the grief is so big that he doesn’t know where he would start.

  
Basira sees the Loneliness in his eyes, and decides not to make him ask her to stay. She has a short talk with Melanie, and so begins the rotation of Martin keeping.

He can see how glad they all are that he doesn’t fight it. They shouldn’t be glad. His fight died with Jon. 

Seconds tick into days. Basira moves in with Martin, picks up a private security job once it’s clear Elias won’t be resurfacing any time soon. 

In a surprising burst of activity, Martin actually drives himself to the institute, logs on to the computer system with Peter’s password, and sorts out severance packages for the employees. Drives himself home. Asks Basira if she thinks he should write letters of recommendation for those who ask for them. Sleeps for two days afterwards. Never gets around to those letters.

* * *

Basira thinks she should talk to him. If the situation were reversed, Martin would talk to her, she thinks. Try to talk hope into her. Encourage her to cry it out. Make her tea not because he’s ever seen her drink a cup of tea, but because tea is an affection that’s easier to accept than the 3-hour hug and cry session that might actually help either of them. 

Basira tries to fix the coffee maker. The coffee comes out tasting like ass no matter what she does. She gives up again.

She makes tea on the stove. It also tastes like ass, and she sets Martin’s cup down too hard maybe, and he doesn’t thank her, but he does drink the tea. 

* * *

One day Basira wakes up and Martin isn’t there. 

She tries to panic. She should panic, right? 

There’s a note on her door. It says “Visiting Jon. Didn’t want to wake you. Be back later. —Martin”

It should be a relief. She should take the note and hold it in her hand and get her breathing under control. She should have to get her breathing under control. 

She sits down on the floor and cries. It does nothing for the weight in her own chest. It doesn’t make her feel anything, not even release.

“I’m sorry Jon,” she says. “I wish I had room for you.”

* * *

She gets up, washes her face. Fixes her hijab. Texts Georgie to text Martin later to see how he’s doing. Tries to feel guilty that she isn’t the one texting Martin. Her inner Melanie tries to say something about putting on her own oxygen mask first, but it doesn’t quite land. Too many years of being sectioned, putting one foot in front of the other and never letting anything take root, maybe. Trauma survival mode is Basira’s base setting. She wishes that bothered her, but it will be a long time before she’s capable of being bothered again.

Or maybe it won’t come back, and she’ll be stuck like this, eating food she can’t taste, going to a job she doesn’t care about, showering because it’s a habit, going to sleep, failing to sleep, standing for an hour at her door listening to Martin snoring on the couch in his own flat, counting his breaths and trying to convince herself to at least lie down, waking up in a cold sweat because of the fear monster that still, after everything, insists on eating them; deciding it’s early enough to get up, getting up, eating food she can’t taste, trying not to cry on the way to the job she doesn’t like, wishing she were crying from grief and not exhaustion, but knowing there’s no room left in her body for anything.

She’s not even sad. Just heavy.

Basira needs a goddamn nap. A good, long one. Maybe a donut. But the magic demon nightmares keep coming, and the regular trauma nightmares keep coming, and the coffee machine in Martin’s flat is broken.

Martin comes home one day and sees her struggling with it. He doesn’t offer to help. He doesn’t offer to buy a new one. Basira is glad, although she doesn’t say anything.

Martin and Basira never got along much when they were running from flesh monsters and trying to make sure Jon didn’t eat anyone and watching Melanie’s spiral and eventual triumph. Not that they disliked each other, they were just. Different people.

It’s funny. They get along fine, now that any pretense of offering support is gone. 

They get along with the flat, mostly. Basira comes home from work and cleans the fridge and makes shitty coffee and leaves the mug in the sink, which Martin hates, so when he gets home from whatever it is he does (something in a library? it involves books and not a lot of pay, and he definitely lied about his age again to make the Institute look like his first job), he washes the dishes and puts on the TV too loud because he needs the noise, and Basira goes into his old room and closes the door and doesn’t complain about the TV because it would be fine if she would just put on some music, but every song she listens to reminds her of Daisy and she just can’t. They both go to bed grumpy and wake up sweating and Basira justifies giving up at 4 a.m. because Martin has to shower in the morning (that was the deal they made, nothing in the flat can smell except cooking, which means laundry and showers have to happen no matter how shitty they feel). 

They pull through, mostly. 

* * *

Eventually Martin starts crying a lot, at movies and puppies and for no reason at all, and Basira hates him for it, and she hates herself for hating him, and she hates that she keeps avoiding him until he stops, and she hates that she can’t just cry like that, in front of anyone and everyone, and she sits on the couch and lets Martin put his head on her shoulder and weep, and she fumes, and she keeps a perfectly neutral expression, and she thinks about what she’ll do once Martin’s handled all his grief and doesn’t need her making sure he eats anymore.

She gets a box of temporary hair dye, bright blue. It will stain her undercap and she’ll spend not an insignificant time getting it out later, but at least it’s something to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Funeral mention  
> in-depth depiction of grief  
> some themes of hopelessness  
> emotional pain  
> entities mentioned: the Lonely


	3. We Should Be Dead in Your Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got away from me, and the letter has not been explored yet. There is the tiniest hint of fluff in this chapter, but mostly just more suffering for our friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's like, the tiniest hint of soft in this chapter but it's overshadowed by the grief.
> 
> See the end notes for more detailed content warnings.
> 
> also....please comment im insecure and if i don't receive feedback within 5 minutes of posting i fear the worst
> 
> what time is it when you're reading this? do you have any pets?

“It is December 24th, a random Tuesday,” Basira thinks to herself, as the fifth Christmas-themed commercial in a row plays. She turns up her music and sighs.

“Okay?” Martin asks. 

“Martin, do you celebrate Christmas?” Basira opens her eyes and looks at him for the first time in weeks. There are no decorations in the flat, no christmas music on the radio, nothing baking in the oven. But she doesn’t actually know if this is normal for Martin.

“I, well, I….used to?” Martin seems…exhausted, but they both are. All the time.

“Didn’t stop on my account, did you?” Basira goes back to her coffee. It still tastes like ass.

“N-no, but I, you know I would have, if it had made you uncomfortable at all—“

“Thanks. But?”

“But.” Martin walks over to the couch. Sits down. Scrubs his hands over his face. Folds into his lap. 

Basira waits for him to get ahold of himself. He kind of doesn’t. 

“Jon,” he says at length. His voice is watery and strained, and he’s still doubled over and clutching his face. Basira doesn’t remember why she opened this can of worms. She doesn’t think she wanted to see Martin in pain, at least she hopes she didn’t, but she really, honestly doesn’t know. Maybe it was just something to say.

It doesn’t matter. No way out but forward. 

“You were gonna decorate with him?” There’s silence for a moment. Basira assumes Martin’s nodded. She should have looked to check.

“What about you,” Martin asks. It’s stupid. It’s something to say.

“No, I don’t celebrate Christmas, Martin.” Martin almost laughs, almost. It takes Basira long minutes to place the sound. This time, Basira hopes Martin doesn’t compose himself. Leaves the question unasked. 

He asks. And she tells him, about the things she’s not doing because of Daisy. How, a long time ago, Daisy would always bring her an “apple juice” on cold mornings. Basira never even learned what the drink was actually called, it became so routine that she didn’t even remember where it had come from, just that it had been there, and it had been nice, and it had kept her warm, and from anyone else it would have been too sweet, and she would have told them she preferred coffee, but it wasn’t anyone else, it was Daisy.

“I think it had cinnamon in it.”

Basira gets up and leaves the flat. Grabs her coat and wallet on the way out. Martin doesn’t call after her, and she doesn’t explain. 

They’ve both taken their share of walks in the cold, this winter.

Way too many hours later, Basira is dragging a four-foot-tall, extremely unsightly fir of some kind up the steps to Martin’s flat. 

If the top branch wasn’t broken before, it definitely is by the time Basira makes it to the door. She takes her glove off with her teeth and almost falls through the door when Martin opens it.

Duh. 

Moving a tree by yourself is loud. Really loud. It’s the loudest thing that’s happened in this flat since.

Well.

Since.

Basira stumbles into the room and is hit by the smell of so many cloves. Oh god Martin. Why. 

She drops the tree in the doorway and leaves Martin to close the door. Goes to the stove, pulls out a fork, and starts removing individual cloves from the massive stock pot full of apples and….oranges? 

Whatever. She’s stirring the pot in search of more cloves when she spies a can on the counter, with no label.

Martin’s still in the other room when he hears her scream.

Martin’s blood runs cold. He’s never heard panic in Basira’s voice, not one time in the years when they’ve been hunted by fear not-gods.

Basira is pulling cans and spices out of the cabinet, flying around the kitchen, touching everything. 

“What are you—“

“HOT!” she yells again, that panicked shake still high in her throat. She’s pointing to the can on the counter. Oh.

“Basira I’m so sorry, it’s okay, it’s—“

“Martin! Don’t just stand there, help me figure out where it’s coming fr—“

  
“Stop, Basira stop, it’s supposed to be,” he picks up a slip of paper from the table.

“What?” she tries not to jump when Martin places his hands on her shoulders, turns her around ever so gently.

“It’s supposed to be hot.” He waits for the words to sink in, for Basira’s eyes to stop flicking over his face. When she finally hears him, she surprises them both by burying herself in Martin’s chest, clinging to his sweater. She still doesn’t cry, but she does breathe. A lot. Martin rubs her back. He’s speaking, and after a while she can kind of hear him.

“It’s okay, It’s okay, we’re okay, you’re okay.” His voice is soothing, even though it’s not true. She’s not, they’re not, it’s not. Nothing is okay. She can’t even answer him when he asks if she’s burned. She’s clutching his sweater with the hand that would have been burned, so that probably means she’s okay.

Well. She’s definitely not that.

What she is is familiar with the process of making caramel by boiling condensed milk for hours. What she is is realizing how long she was out of the flat. What she is is seeing the tongs Martin had used to pull the scorching hot can out of the pot now sitting in the sink; seeing the apples still on the table; seeing the pretzels Martin had pulled out of their pantry. 

Slowly, she calms down. Takes off her coat, finally. Explains to Martin that cloves are ridiculously strong and that he needs like, six. Not fifty. He nods sagely, and goes to look for his tree stand. 

When he’s not back in ten minutes, Basira goes into the bedroom (her bedroom?) and finds him, sitting on the floor, the suitcases he keeps under her bed spread out around him. A pair of Jon’s socks still in one of them. A few pieces of paper in his hands. 

“I don’t have a tree stand anymore,” he says. There’s something wrong in Martin’s voice, something dark and jagged.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure something out.”

“I forgot, I took it to my mother’s last time I…saw her. I don’t know who has it now. Maybe my aunt?”

“Okay,” Basira says. She doesn’t ask what the papers are.

She doesn’t ask whose blood is on them.  
  


* * *

Basira gets the stock pot from the drying rack. She puts the tree half in the pot, leaning against a corner of the room. The statement that killed Jon sits on the floor. Martin gets the pretzels, and the tin of homemade caramel dip, and Basira cuts the apples, and puts on some Kate Bush.

Martin sits down, awkwardly, has to hand Basira his mug of cider (it’s not…awful? Way too sweet and not anywhere close to the apple juice Daisy used to bring her, but it tastes more or less like apple and it’s warm) to do it.

“We could use the table,” Martin offers, as a formality. Basira shakes her head.

“Merry Christmas,” she says, offering her cup of cider for a toast.

“Happy Wednesday,” Martin answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Christmas is discussed  
> Grieving, emotional distress  
> blood mentioned  
> canonical character death referenced


	4. Dust to Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far away, a traveler walks through unfamiliar terrain. He feels he is being watched, but cannot discern the whearabouts of his watcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a cliffhanger and I have no set schedule for the next chapter. I do welcome guesses as to what's gonna happen next, although I won't confirm or deny anything.
> 
> Please comment!
> 
> see the end notes for content warnings for this chapter.

Jon was beginning to think he wasn’t in the Lonely.

Jon was beginning to think he wasn’t anywhere he’d been before.

And yet, he had the distinct sensation at the base of his spine that he had never been anywhere else, not really.

He stopped walking long enough to drag Martin’s name from his dry throat before continuing on. 

He gets the feeling that here, he could walk forever, getting more and more exhausted, but never quite tired enough to drop. Never tired enough to rest. 

Never ready to learn what kind of dreams he’d have in a place like this.

* * *

Jon tries to take stock of his surroundings, get his bearings, but he can’t see far through the dust and there are no buildings, no landmarks, no people. Just rocks. Just dirt.

Maybe, he could be in the Buried. He shudders. 

“Martin!”

* * *

“Martin?”

* * *

Does the Vast cover sandstorms? 

“Martin.”

* * *

“Martin.”

* * *

It doesn’t, does it? Sandstorms are the domain of the buried, where the dirt fills your lungs and chokes you slowly.

His lungs are clear, aren’t they? 

…

They are, right?

“m. MAHTIN”

He coughs, and forces himself to keep walking.

* * *

“Martin!”

* * *

“Martin!”

* * *

And then suddenly, as suddenly as the wind changes directions, there are silent footsteps approaching him.

He can See the outline of the figure as it creeps through the storm. It’s close, and will be upon him in a second or two. Jon casts his Gaze about him, but there’s nowhere to hide. He could run, but not forever, and there would still be nowhere to hide. He is completely exposed and so tired of being hunted. He thinks one last time of the Admiral and Martin and Daisy and Georgie and Melanie and Basira and Tim and Sasha and then holds very still, waiting for the slaughter.

He starts to shake.

The figure stops in front of him.

* * *

“Jon?”

“Wh—how—No. No, no, please—please no.”

* * *

And the Watcher drinks it all in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:
> 
> Loneliness  
> Difficulty breathing  
> Fear of death/harm described  
> Canon-typical Beholding mentioned


	5. Vertical Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One question is answered. Many more are asked. The author spends a solid 20 minutes trying to describe a filing cabinet with a broken printer on top.
> 
> Pls comment.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Almost doubling the length of the story with this one chapter? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> This chapter has a lot of whump but there's a little comfort in here too.
> 
> Detailed content warnings (and the comment box) at the end.

It only takes an hour to determine that The Statement is, to their eyes, completely unreadable. Occasionally Basira thinks she can make out a repeated phrase, or a letter, but it’s probably her mind playing tricks on her. Human minds are primed to find patterns where there are none, especially when they’re running on months of grief and too little sleep. And besides, she’s definitely fucking hallucinating patterns out of exhaustion. If she unfocuses her eyes just right, sometimes, the echo of Jon’s face is visible against the background of written over words. She puts the page down.

“Remind me why we don’t think this is the spiral?” Basira knows why. Martin needs to believe Helen is an ally, that monsters don’t have to lose themselves to the hungers. He’ll ignore any evidence to the contrary because he doesn’t know who he’d be if he let it go. Doesn’t know how to accept the world the way it is, cold and hard and full of death.

Martin sighs.

“I don’t think Helen would hurt Jon.” When did he start crying? He’s been doing it so quietly, Basira hadn’t even noticed. “And the letters are covered up like…like deliberately, like the statement giver was…” He stumbles over his words, staring into the air.

“Like they were afraid of being watched.”

“Right.”

“Right.” She won’t argue that point, not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Well,” Basira says, finishing the last cold sips of her cider, “I’m going to bed. You alright out here?”

“Yeah. I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

“Basira?” Martin asks, just before she closes the door. 

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Basira nods. She doesn’t know what he’s thanking her for.

* * *

Sand stings his eyes, and Jon chokes on a sob.

* * *

“I didn’t literally think I’d be seeing you in Hell, you know.”

“Tim. Tim, I. Um,” Jon winced, “I don’t think we’re, we're not, it’s not Hell I don’t think.” Jon rocks back on his feet, struggling to collect his thoughts against the stinging sand that even now obscures Tim’s face from him.

“Wouldn’t suppose your evil eye powers have given you any insights into where in the goddamn hell here actually is?”  
  
Tim’s voice is stronger than Jon expects, given how long he must have wandered here, but he does look tired. Dark circles hanging under his eyes, he stumbles towards Jon without seeming like he means to.

Jon closes his eyes and Looks.  
  
“I was kidding,” Tim almost slurs,”we’re—“

“We’re in the Wasteland,” Jon shudders as the words tumble out of his mouth like bile. “The far-off where old things come to die…” Jon trails off, and startles at Tim’s hand shaking his shoulder, hard.  
  
“Jon?” There’s anger wound up in his shoulders, but Tim’s eyes are alight with worry more than anything else.  
  
“I got…worse, after the Unknowing…I should explain, what happened, I know…a lot more now than…than I did before. It’s a long explanation but I, I owe you that, at least.”  
  
“You owe me a lot of things, Jon,” Tim scoffs.

“I know,” Jon whispers, eyes on his toes.  
  
“No use having emotional conversations when I’ve got sand in my mouth. Where’s your base camp?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Where you sleep?”  
  
“I…um, didn’t think I could get tired here.” Tim’s eyes widen, and Jon wishes he had to look up to know that, but he doesn’t.  
  
“Christ, Jon.”  


“I know.”  
  
Tim motions behind him, sharply. “There’s a cave. No idea how far,” he pauses, “probably never find it again in this damn storm.”  
  
Jon blinks, and shudders violently as he Knows where Tim has spent his nights, cold and hungry and alone. The storm thickens, maybe, and he takes Tim’s hand. Tim doesn’t ask if he knows the way, and Jon wishes he could mistake that for trust.  
  
He wishes a lot of things about Tim. Mostly that he hadn’t died.  
  
He grips Tim’s hand tighter, and while Tim doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders, he doesn’t pull away either. 

* * *

The mouth of the cave is barely more than a shadow in the already murky backdrop of the desert, a hole in the ground hardly big enough to wiggle through, with smooth sides from where Tim must have squeezed in and out of it. Jon can’t see inside it.  
  
“Home sweet home!” Tim smiles bitterly, sits down at the edge of the hole and dangles his legs in. “Hope you’re not scared of the dark,” he says with an exaggerated wink.  
  
“I’m scared of everything,” Jon says, and Tim snorts a bit. He doesn’t realize how literally Jon means that.

Without warning, Tim drops what must be several feet to the cave floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s much easier to climb out.”

Tim’s fingers are still visible to Jon’s eyes, but nothing else is, and Jon can’t imagine slithering into a strange dark hole in an otherworldly desert hellscape with no guarantee that it was empty.  
  
It is empty, though. Jon doesn’t have to See to know that everything’s empty here, everything the sand touches.

“It was something to do,” Tim says. His arms are open, waiting for Jon, and he takes a deep breath and slips down into the hole.  
  
Tim catches his hips, helping him to the floor he can’t see. Jon almost immediately begins to panic. 

He’s underground, which is fine, because it’s not the pressing choke of the Buried, it’s just a normal hole, and Tim’s here, and Jon’s whimpering in the darkness, and Jon can’t See where he is or where Tim is or the walls or the floor or the ceiling.  
  
“Your eyes should adjust in a minute or two,” Tim says, oblivious to Jon’s quiet breakdown, the way Jon’s eyes are screwed shut, the way his stomach turns in twists that would put Helen’s wallpaper choices to shame. Jon bites back his treacherous voice as long as he can manage, which is about three seconds.  
  
“Tim?” Jon doesn’t want to do this, not after everything. He doesn’t deserve Tim’s pity, doesn’t want to reach out, doesn’t want to cry into Tim’s shirt and beg for help, but the fear just keeps building, and he’s so small, and so fragile, and Tim’s arms come around him and the only pressure on his lungs is from being pulled into the warmth of Tim’s chest.  
  
“Talk to me, Jon,” Tim’s voice is suddenly very gentle, and Jon hates how he quiets as it rolls over him like honey, how he relaxes into Tim’s hold and lets himself believe he isn’t trapped.  
  
“I…” Jon’s too exhausted to form words. Tim sighs.  
  
“Right. Back outside, then.” At that moment, the dust storm outside vanishes, or it must, because a beam of scalding light drops down the hole after them. 

Jon screams. He tries to run, but his legs are rooted to the spot. Something picks him up, and he lashes out, limbs flailing, but it pulls him away from the light, not into it, into the comfortable darkness of the cave, and Jon tries to be very still after that.

* * *

Jon drifts. He can hear something, but he knows it isn’t urgent. He shifts slightly, but his limbs are heavy and loose and he doesn’t want to really move. He just wants to lie here, relaxed and safe, seeing nothing, knowing nothing but a silent lullabyand a gentle, rolling warmth. Slowly, he becomes aware of arms around him, and it’s a nice feeling. He savors where one wraps around his ribs and shoulders. There’s a hand connected to that arm, and it’s planted right in the middle of Jon’s back. The pressure feels wonderful. The other arm is wrapped under his left shoulder, with the hand in his hair, and that’s nice too. He feels fingers rubbing his scalp and he sighs deeply. He thinks about opening his eyes, but he’s far too comfortable.

The almost-lullaby swells over him, tells him everything’s alright, and he doesn’t know why it shouldn’t be. It tells him he doesn’t have to open his eyes, which he knew already. It asks him if he could squeeze his hand, it would be so pleased with him if he could just squeeze his left hand, whenever he’s ready, he can take as long as he’d like to think about it, but it would be so wonderfully happy if Jon could just squeeze, just gently press his fingers down even a little bit. Jon strains, tries to drag his attention down his arm, but it’s…difficult. Or maybe, difficult isn’t the right word, as he feels no distress or shame. He can take his time, it’s alright. The lullaby asks him to breathe, which is so much simpler, to just inhale slowly, exhale even slower, It gives him an idea about how to find his hand.  
  
Instead of focusing, Jon breathes, and listens, and breathes, and listens, and soon the lullaby is all he can hear, all he can think. As he relaxes completely, he lets his mind wander wherever the tune takes him. 

It rambles, staying close to his head at first, then drips down his shoulders and into his ribs, lingering on the space where Jared took two of them, then skitters down what he vaguely thinks is his bad leg, although concepts like “bad” or “pain” are so far outside of Jon’s grasp right now, they exist only as syllables in his mind, meaningless letters he could roll around on his tongue if he wanted. The song jumps into his lungs, flowing up through his bronchi, following the path his voice would take if he were capable of speaking. Jon thinks it might be fun to hum a bit, but his breathing is too even for that. It doesn’t matter, he can hum later. Right now, he was doing something, something that felt nice.

There. The song is around one of his hands now, although he’s not sure which one. He tries to remember which is left and which is right, but it’s so much thinking and the song is restless to move on, wavering between his wrist and his ankle. Jon breathes again, relaxes, and wills his hand to drift out of sync with the rest of his body, wills it to sway back and forth. Contracting his fingers is out of the question at the moment, but maybe he can get partial credit. 

There’s a hand near his hand, and maybe Jon would like to hold it? He thinks for a moment, about dropping straight back into rest, and weighs it against holding the hand first and seeing where he floats from there. The hand is very big and nice and not too far from where Jon’s hand is now, so he opts to let his fingers wander into the embrace offered to them. The fingers squeeze around his, and Jon decides he likes that feeling. As he’s drifting back into something like sleep, his fingers give the little twitch he was trying so hard for earlier. He almost laughs at how easy it is, to just relax and let his body take its time, but then the happiness the lullaby suggested washes over him, and he lets the waves take him down, down into the warmth where he knows nothing at all.

* * *

Next to the door to his flat, there is a printer Martin keeps telling himself to fix. Martin also tells himself he’ll find a permanent place for The Statement, once he’s less tired, but he’s been tired since the first time Jon died. So, on top of the printer is where It goes.  
  
Tomorrow, Martin will sleep through three of his alarms, and be quietly miserable with himself. He was getting better about that, has been up before noon every day for the last two weeks. He’ll assume Basira filed The Statement away when she cleaned up the kitchen while he slept. He’ll want to talk to her about that, about not shouldering responsibilities that should be his, but maybe he’ll let it slide this once. Maybe she needed someone to take care of.  
  
Basira will assume Martin put it away somewhere, and will be glad she doesn’t have to deal with it anymore.  


The Statement slips from the back of the printer, and fifteen pages of fear hit the floor behind the filing cabinet that holds the various tax forms and waivers and health records that marked the last 20 some-odd years of Hanna Blackwood’s life. 

From her bedroom, Basira cannot see as Jon’s face, in two dimensions, stares appraisingly out into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> -Panic Attacks  
> -dissociation  
> -Implied mind manipulation (or is it? You don't know.)  
> -Continued themes of grief  
> -Brief mentions of isolation  
> -mentions of exhaustion


End file.
